


Home Is Where The Heart Aches

by karmascars



Series: Bath Time [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Drowning, M/M, Male Solo, Porn With Plot, Self-Hatred, don't worry though nobody dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8404132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: Sixth part of the Bath Time series. It’s been two months or so, maybe longer, and Dean can’t forget what’s happened. He’s coping as well as he can -- which is to say, not well at all. Castiel is trying to help, and so is Sam, but dysfunction is this family’s middle name. It’ll take a shock to show Dean exactly what he’s missing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Since it’s been so long, I’d recommend you go back and read part five before this, because this fills in some holes and might not make as much sense if you don’t. ♥

_Snow slaps Dean across the face, lashing at his arms and back through his thin t-shirt. His core is only warm thanks to Dad and all that foul weather survival training: 'Rub your chest,' he'd say. 'Your arms will take care of themselves.'_

_Dean mutters a curse and rubs harder. Glancing around, all he can see is driving white._

_"Cas!" he roars again, his throat raw. But the only answer is the scream of the blizzard._

I'm gonna die, _he thinks, realizing he can't feel the backs of his arms, the shells of his ears, or his own damn feet._

_"No, you are not."_

_"Goddamnit --" Dean whirls, facing the grumpy face and rumpled form of Castiel standing not three feet away. "You left me out here!"_

_"May I remind you who ran away from whom?"_

_"It's fucking freezing, Cas!"_

_"Yes," Castiel says. "But you're not going to die."_

_"Please take me someplace warmer," Dean moans, sucking his lip into his mouth. It feels like a gummy worm from the fridge against his teeth._

_"Have you thought about what I said?"_

_"What? I --"_

_"Because you will not die, but neither will you_ _leave until you consider what is at stake."_

_"My life is at stake!" Dean snaps._

_"Yes," Castiel says. "But not in the way you mean."_

_He vanishes._

_The stark landscape around Dean feels even more barren then, alien, and so very white. He thought he felt alone before... The knowledge that Cas won't let him leave, despite the angel's promise he won't actually succumb to the cold, rolls through him on pang after sluggish pang of anxiety._

I thought we had this figured out, _he thinks in despair. He'd mumble aloud if his lips weren't in danger of freezing together._ I thought I had it under control. No more new revelations, right? Nothing left to discover.

Then my brother got involved.

_It's so easy to fall into circular thinking when everything is blinding white and so very cold. Even easier to pass the blame. Never mind the guilt that sits on him like a stone, pressing each step deeper into the powder 'til he's floundering._

_"Cas!"_

_A gust of wind tears the word from his throat. Dean coughs, then doubles over, unable to stop. Each breath he draws rips in and out of his lungs. He coughs until his throat is beyond raw, until he begins to taste copper._

_And when he spits into the snow, just before he falls to his knees, it's bright red._

"Fuck!"

Dean sits bolt upright in bed, the comforter scratchy and thin beneath his fingertips. The sun from around the cheap blackout curtains is warm on his exposed arm.

He's alive.

He's not freezing.

He's not stuck in the snow alone; he's in his bed, in some backwater haunt east of the Mississippi.

In the other bed beside him, Sam sighs, disarming his pistol with a heavy click. Springs groan under his shifting weight.

Flopping back on his pillows, Dean stares at the ceiling.

Waiting.

"It's been weeks, Dean. Are you --"

"I'm fine," Dean says, automatic. Maybe too quickly. But it's out there now.

"Is it still the same dream?"

Sam's concern twists knots somewhere low, all sick and hot. Dean feels like barfing as much as basking in the warmth.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ his conscience chants. Damn thing won't shut up. Hasn't for ages, ever since everything Sammy says or does took on a whole new meaning. Dean grunts, rolling over, shutting his eyes against the glaring outline of sun.

It must be well into morning now. They both sleep later these days.

Dean stares across the expanse of white cotton. The bed is too big. Too empty. He curses himself for a fool but lets his hand clutch at the sheets anyway, hating himself a little more for wishing there were a tousled dark head on the other pillow. But he hasn't seen Cas in a long-ass while. Not since --

Well.

The failed date in Salt Lake probably doesn’t even count.

Y'know, he might be going through some kind of withdrawal. Maybe that's why the nightmares. Maybe his stupid subconscious is just latching on to the last time he and Cas really talked, and won't let up til Dean --

He doesn't even know.

Or maybe he does, but his Ph.D in Denial ain't gonna utilize itself.

Sam isn't helping, sprawled there with his comfortable smells and messy bed hair. He sighs behind Dean and Dean remembers the feel of Sam's jaw working in his hand, over Castiel's cock.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

_Fuuuck me,_ Dean groans to himself, disparaging. He digs his face deeper into the pillow that depressingly smells only of him.

And Sam knows him too damn well. Dean hears his brother rustling, lying back down and curling like an apostrophe toward him. Sam knows something is eating at him. Dean just hopes that when his brother guesses -- and he knows he will -- Sam will guess way, way off the mark.

 _It's not you workin' Cas over by candlelight,_ Dean projects to the other bed. _It's not cold I felt in my fuckin' soul. C'mon, Sammy. Do me a solid._

"Y'know," Sam muses, "I read something at Bobby's once -- This guy, he just got colder and colder. Nearly died 'til they figured out he'd been hexed." Pause. "But we haven't run into any witches lately, have we?"

_Home run, Sam. Good game._

"Are you askin', or...?" Dean grumbles toward the window.

"No," Sam says, with a noise like he meant to chuckle but it died on its way out. "I guess I'm not."

In fact, this Georgia job is the first solid work they've had in ages. They've just been driving -- well, Dean's been driving, Sam folded up like a disgruntled scarecrow in the passenger seat -- aimlessly, for weeks. Anywhere warm. Anywhere in the South. Dean thought about Florida more than once, but Sam gets weird whenever he mentions the state, so he didn't mention it.

This one ought to be a cinch, though: redneck poltergeist. Dean shifts, shying from memories of the last one, of dark skin and darker eyes -- Fuck, he misses Cassie sometimes. (And the irony of similar names hasn't escaped his notice, thanks.) But there's no old loose ends tied up in this job.

Fannie Bonneville, aged 47, was driven mad by her abusive husband. She sent the kids to live with her mother before raining ruin down over the husband's entire horrible family. She died in the attempt. Signs were pointing toward some kinda bastardized white Southern voodoo. It wasn't that the Winchesters blamed her for doing what she did, but she was wreaking havoc on anyone who tried to enter the property -- including her now-grown grandchildren.

Dean was looking forward to smacking a feisty spook around. He didn't have to think for that; it was all muscle memory.

"You goin' for coffee?" he asks Sam without turning around.

There's no answer. Hitching his shoulder around, Dean rolls in fits and starts to behold his brother, fast asleep again with his mouth wide open and a drool spot forming on his pillow.

Caught in the moment, Dean traces the lines of Sam's face, slack in sleep. His worry lines have smoothed, and he looks younger.

_Maybe he's dreaming already. Hope it's a good one._

There's no solace in sleep for Dean these days. He envies Sam this peace, even as he's glad Sam gets to have it. Yet another example of the weird duality that's his love for his brother.

Dean swallows, throat dry.

The memories are muted by time and drink and denial, but no less incendiary. Sam, Cas, all that skin... Cas with his head thrown back, Sam with his long fingers wrapped around Cas and stroking. With his mouth on places Dean's mouth has been, radiating heat when Dean --

Fingers twitch.

So does Dean's dick.

 _Goddamnit._ He glares across at Sam. He wants to sleep again, too, but there's no resting now that he's thinking thoughts. Remembering shit he's tried to block out.

Some of it is blurred with how wasted he was, but some of it...

He's felt the heft of his brother's cock. There's no going back from that.

Before he really decides to, Dean reaches down into his boxer briefs. He's half on his side, legs spreading all caddywonkus but shit, does that feel good. Especially when he imagines it's _Sam's_ hand like he totally hasn't been letting himself do since that night.

Sam's name moaned in Cas' voice shivers down his spine and out his cock in a blurt of precome.

And Sam's noises too...

Dean bites his lip against a noise of his own.

He works himself quickly, perfunctorily, trying to stay quiet, trying not to dwell on the hottest thing he's ever seen for spank material. But he knows boobs won't cut it. Not even weirder stuff, like demon chicks 69ing with their tails -- yeah, so he watches hentai. Shut up. Dean wrings around the head, shifts his hips to fuck his fist, and lets himself picture Sam plunging in and out of Castiel's tight little ass, hearing clear as day the noises they made. Just a few more strokes and he's riding the roller coaster up, up, up.

Standing at the precipice, lips trembling, body strung taut, Dean's mind flashes past so many things:

Sam's grin.

Castiel's eyes, hooded in pleasure.

Sam, standing there in a towel, laughing.

Castiel's gift to him, red ribbon in a bathtub and so much more. How the room exploded when he came.

Then Sam again, this time completely fantasized, doubled up in the passenger seat jerking himself and moaning. Dean can imagine with perfect clarity what that would look and sound like -- those long legs in the way; Sam tensing, filling all the available space and bowing his back when there's not enough; bracing a hand on the ceiling -- His noises getting needier, his cock swelling harder, longer --

 _Yeah,_ Dean groans inwardly, not even trusting himself to breathe. He watches Sam come spectacularly all over the dash.

Panting, fantasy Sam winds down, chest heaving, hand stilling. His legs splay beneath the glove box.

And then --

Dean's hand speeds up. He's straining for it, legs tensing, heels digging into the mattress.

He watches Sam sit forward and kitten-lick his come off the leather.

Mouth agape, Dean arches back hard and spurts all up his abdomen. He shakes through his orgasm, staring through the ceiling, wringing out the aftershocks to half-remembered flashes, feeling Castiel's cock through Sam's cheek, Sam rimming Cas with that goddamn tongue.

With a measured gust of breath, Dean sags back, hand falling limp.

_I'm fucked, pure and simple._

He'll never be able to turn back from that night. _Especially not if I can't have a little fuckin' self control,_ he sneers at himself.

But that's never been his forte. Case in point, the night in question. He can't even blame it all on the booze, not after Cas took his drunk away mid-flight and he still came watching them.

Guilt cramps in his belly, souring the afterglow.

The sheet takes care of the mess, and Dean curls up beneath the comforter. He's definitely tired again now, but he shivers at the thought of going through -- _that_ \-- again.

Maybe if he thinks about anything other than Cas and snow as he falls asleep, he won't wind up back there.

Settling deeper into the covers, Dean closes his eyes. He's wrapping his fingers around Baby's steering wheel. It's a gorgeous day. The sun is shining, heating all her leather and sparkling off her paint. Dean feels the rumble of her up through his thighs. He's just driving, that's all. Just driving. There's something familiar playing, volume cranked down low.

He can almost hear --

_"Dean?"_

_Aw, no, c'mon._ He strains to listen. It was --

_"Dean!"_

_He's trudging through blinding white, no idea where he's headed other than away._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"Guess I'm finding my own way back!" he yells over his shoulder. The wind snatches it, but he knows Cas can hear him._

_"Why can't you just admit --"_

_"Why can't you," he whirls, jabbing a finger at the angel, "just leave it the fuck alone?"_

_"Dean, you need to think about this."_

_"What's there to think about? I'm in the fucking Arctic circle!"_

_"Alaska, actually. And your brother, for one," Castiel says, much closer, hands on Dean's shoulders and face mere inches from Dean's. He's too pale. "For another, me."_

_"I think about you all the damn time," Dean protests. His teeth are starting to chatter._

_"But what do you think about?"_

_Clenching his jaw, Dean stares him down, but Castiel has millennia on him in terms of standing ground. With a frustrated growl Dean turns away._

_"I know you never considered your future overly much, because you never thought you'd have one."_

_Dean keeps trudging. One numb foot in front of the other._

_"Now you do," Castiel calls. "So what will you make of it?"_

_Rubbing his chest, Dean tries not to hear._

_"What will you make of us?"_

 - - - - -

Mrs. Bonneville isn't their run-of-the-mill restless spirit. She must have been into some seriously bad juju, because she throws them through furniture into walls like their bodies are toys.

 _We haven't even been here fifteen minutes,_ Dean thinks doggedly, right before the sparks overcome his vision and he passes out.

\- - - - -

He's usually glad to see Sam's face. But never more so than swimming back into focus as Dean blinks, regaining consciousness.

"You alright?" his brother asks, hushed, hauling him to his feet. When Dean gives him a curt nod, Sam lets go of his arm, glancing around. "She won't be fazed for long."

"You got the diary?"

"She's got it. Chucked it up into the rafters and went after you again."

Dean scowls up at the second floor landing. "She knows what it is?"

"She knows I want it," Sam sighs. "That's enough."

"Goddamn poltergeists. Why couldn't she just be violent? I can handle violent. Tricksy makes me wanna throw things."

"How about you throw some salt, then, so we can get out of here," Sam mutters.

He peers up the stairs. "She's quiet again. That's never good."

"I'll take point," Dean says. His shotgun is still up there. "While she's distracted, grab the thing and light 'er up."

"Let's do it."

Dean makes as much noise as he can mounting the stairs, poking his head into all the bedrooms, wrinkling his nose at the swirling dust.

"Housekeeping," he calls into one room.

He pushes the door open wider. It's the master bedroom, with an antique four poster bed and windows facing the front of the house. Sun glints off the Impala down below in the driveway.

The curtains waft in an impossible breeze.

Slowly, Dean turns.

"Miz Fannie?" he hedges.

She flickers into view, all sunken eyes and stubborn set to her frame. Her hair is wild, her clothes torn. She tilts her head to regard him like prey.

"Hey, there," Dean says. "I don't blame you, y’know -- if my husband had been doin' shit like that, I woulda --"

In a blink she's much, much closer, leering at him in midair right in front of his face. Dean flinches, but he doesn't yell.

She's searching his face for something. Her scrutiny is unnerving -- and sure, being this close to a ghost is no picnic, but she's looking for something specific. That skeeves Dean out.

"Can I --"

"Liar," she suddenly spits, rearing back from him. Fire whirls in her colorless eyes. "Liar!"

Dean takes a sidestep away from the windows, just in case she gets pushy. "Uh, I don't --"

"Lies of the soul are a sin," she says. She swoops in close enough to jab a finger like an icicle right through Dean's chest, staggering him back. "Lies of the heart are wicked. Wicked!"

"Sam?" Dean calls toward the open door, not taking his eyes off the poltergeist. Chill spreads through him, numbing him from the inside out. The thing that used to be Fannie Bonneville sneers at him from the middle of the ceiling.

"I can't find it!" comes the faint answer. "She hid it!"

"Oof!" Dean grunts when she swoops down and prods him again, harder this time. He staggers back through a doorway, nearly falling on his ass. A shiver wracks him. "Hurry up, will you?"

"I'm looking!"

"Deceitful," hisses the spirit, hovering in front of Dean, over him, keeping him at a crouch. When he tries to stand, she buffets him over the head. "Liar!"

"Lady, I don't -- ow!” He doesn’t dodge fast enough. “Look! I'm not -- I don't --"

"Deny, deny, deny," she cackles at him, singsong. She swoops away, chanting it over and over around the top of the room, and Dean has just enough time to realize they're in the ancient master bath before she dive bombs him, screaming, "Lies of omission!"

The backs of Dean's knees hit something and buckle, crumpling him into the antique claw-footed tub. The back of his head strikes the faucet, a glancing blow that doesn't take him out but rings his bell just long enough for her to activate the much newer shower head.

"Aagh! Shit, that's cold!" Dean flounders, sputtering beneath the stream. He gets purchase with his hands and shoves himself up --

The poltergeist shoves him back down. His head hits the faucet again. Everything flickers with his eyelids. His legs are splayed over the lip of the tub but it's just deep enough, he can't get any leverage.

"Sa--aaagh!"

She cranks the water up, filling his mouth and nose, blinding him. It's pouring from the faucet too, soaking the rest of him. She's shoving him down as the tub fills. She's going to drown him.

But not before he freezes.

She's taking the temperature down, down into the negatives, the very temperature those old Greek philosophers said it was in Hell.

The water starts to feel like mud, but maybe that's just his range of movement slowing. Down, down. He can barely keep shoving up anymore. It feels like Fannie is solid and sitting on his chest.

 _"Dean,"_ Castiel's voice echoes amid a blizzard in his mind.

Dean flounders, weighed down. He's moving slower. Can't help it. He's so tired...

 _"Dean,"_ Castiel says, closer and louder.

_"You love Sam. Sam loves you. You both love me, and I love you both. How is it so difficult to accept?"_

_"Because it's wrong!"_ Bubbles escape his lips. Dean can't see, can't feel his body. He knows his arms are moving but only because he can feel his joints grinding. Is he underwater? Is he fighting the snow? _"You know it is!"_

 _"Perhaps I would have thought so,"_ Castiel says, _"long ago. But the world is different now. You and Sam are different. There is no malice in your love. No coercion. You come to each other of your own free will -- however reluctant you are to accept it."_

Dean opens his eyes. He's definitely underwater. Fannie is holding him down, his lungs are burning -- but he can see Castiel in that damn blizzard like he's right there with him again.

_"Denial is your strongest coping mechanism, but it might be time to stop coping with this and start living."_

Back then, Dean would have quipped something stupid and kept trudging. Castiel let him walk for awhile -- until he couldn’t keep himself upright, even his stubborn resolve faltering -- before the angel reappeared, blank-faced, to zap him back to health and civilization. Dean spent the rest of the night barefoot in a bar in Nome, getting weird looks from the locals at his lack of foul weather gear, til he was beyond shitfaced with a silent Cas beside him not drinking a drop.

In the morning, Cas saw him back to the motel, sobering him up for yet a third time so he could go collect his brother and pretend to be offended Sam was wearing his jacket.

In fact, he liked the look of sleepless Sammy bundled in something of his. Always liked it when Sam wore his hand-me-down shirts. It made him feel like he was protecting Sam, like he is now, like he does every time he denies himself something he wants so Sam can be happy, oblivious.

Dean's struggles slow. His chest heaves with the lack of air, and he thinks how easy it could be to breathe and let the icy water take him.

Some protector he is. It's obvious Sam doesn't need him. Sam's always saving him, now. Sam would be better off without Dean to fuck his life up time after time -- Hell, he might even be happy with Cas, if that's something Cas would be into. Maybe they've been seeing each other this whole time, and that's why Dean hasn't -- why Cas hasn't --

_Shit._

Everything is fading. The weight on his chest is just pressure, no feeling to accompany it from the numb skin under his clothes. He thinks he might hear a bang, a shout, but it's all ephemera.

 _They'd both be happier without me_ is more a swirl of emotion than words. Sam, then Castiel flashes through his fading consciousness, a variety of expressions. Both of them together. The way Cas looked at Sam, the way he wouldn't look away even when Dean touched his face.

The tears are hot for only an instant as they escape Dean's eyes.

A white light blossoms in the back of his mind.

 _"Dean,"_ Castiel whispers.

Warm lips caress his.

_"Live."_

Then he's hauled up into blessed stinging air, sharp flat blows landing on his back, and Dean coughs out water he didn't know he'd ingested to the tune of Sam's frantic babbling.

The poltergeist is gone.

Blinking, numb, Dean sits in the water just breathing. Shivering. Alive. Beside him, Sam collapses on the toilet seat.

When he stands, he needs his brother's help. This time, he doesn't shove Sam off or try to play like he's fine. He nearly died. He isn't fine. But not just because of that.

It isn't until he's sitting in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket and feeling all discombobulated like he usually does with Sam at the wheel, that he grinds out between chatters of his teeth, "I talked to Cas."

"What?" Sam glances over at him. "Just now?"

"Nah, ages ago. He, uh --" Dean breaks off in a fit of coughing. "He says you love him."

That isn't how he meant to go about this, and judging by the way Sam stiffens it was a pretty shit decision, but it's out there now. He forges ahead.

"Says he loves you too. And me, I --" More coughing. "I don't know what I'd do without you guys, but if I never got the ch-chance t--" That was too many words. Dean hunches over his lap and coughs til he's drooling out the last of the bathwater, and the Impala is pulling into their motel's parking lot.

Sam helps him into the room, helps him strip sodden clothes off limbs that refuse to function, and starts steering him toward the bathroom. Once Dean realizes that's where they're headed, he balks. Hard.

"We have to warm you up." Sam's insistence sounds wooden.

"No." Dean's core contracts, making him spit out the words. "No more water."

"Dean, you probably have hypothermia. Lukewarm showers --"

"I said no!" He whirls, elbowing Sam, trying to dart away on legs made of lead. He manages a wobble before they give way on him. Sam tries to grab him. Both of them stumble sideways, sprawling atop Sam's bed.

Dean tries to get purchase, struggling against the sheets, but Sam and exhaustion hold him fast.

"No --"

"Dean, I'm tired of this. Let me help you!" Sam pleads, his voice thick.

"Oh, like I helped you?" Dean doesn't even recognize his own voice, strangled and wavering with every damn shiver.

"What --"

_I'm sick and you should leave me to die._

Dean closes his eyes, a lump in his throat. He stops fighting.

_I don't deserve you, or him, or anything good. I fucked it all up and now -- just --_

_You should have let her kill me._

"Enough."

Fury stings at Dean's ears, his mind, and he opens his eyes in time to see Castiel stride into view and yank Sam away like he's made of nothing but air.

Then Castiel hauls back and slaps Dean hard across the face.

It snaps his whole head sideways. Dean blinks over at his brother, who looks furious.

"How dare --" Sam snarls.

"You couldn't hear his thoughts,” Castiel interrupts. “I could, and he needed that. Dean, I'm sorry,” he continues, quieter. “I never wished to lay a hand on you. But can you think a little clearer now?"

With the realization he'd been freaking out -- that he'd been doing it on a broad enough spectrum to be heard instead of just felt -- comes a hot flush of embarrassment. Dean cuts his eyes to the floor. He refuses to rub his stinging cheek, but he works his jaw around and feels the tender skin stretch. He wonders if it'll bruise. He’d deserve it.

He sees Castiel step toward Sam, maybe holding out a hand, but Sam just storms past him. The bed dips next to Dean. The comforter gets rearranged over his shoulders.

"Sam --" Castiel begins.

"I think you should leave."

Dean startles at the black rage in his brother's voice, looking up at Sam's white-nostriled murderous expression.

"No, he's right," he says, surprising even himself.

"But he --"

"Only hurt my pride, and you know it." Dean tries a smile up at Cas, also trying not to notice how the angel has drawn in on himself. "It's okay. I kinda needed it. I was..." He glances back down at the ratty carpet visible between his bare knees. "I was outta control."

"Dean, what's going on?"

He's got to look at Sam, then, his basest instinct to find whatever caused his brother such fear and confusion and lay it to rest. Sam is so tense, so lost sitting there, no idea what to do with his hands but wring them. He's enormous and clearly not going anywhere, and Dean has never felt so simultaneously relieved and stupid in his life.

Cas already said _he’s_ not going anywhere. The fact that he keeps showing up to save Dean’s dumb ass is plenty testament to that. And he knows Sam will stick with him to the bitter end and back… But now Dean has to prove to them both that he’s not leaving, either.

He thinks Cas knows. He wonders if Sam does.

 _Fuck it._ It's an awkward angle, but the best idea Dean's scrambled brain has is to lurch forward and kiss Sam's parted lips.

Sam gasps, "You're so cold," but doesn't quite pull away to say it. Dean presses in, turning, one hand finding Sam's to grip it hard as the breath he steals becomes a tiny moan.

He hears the other bedsprings rattle.

Breaking the kiss, he turns his head just enough to see Castiel sitting there. Dean leans back against Sam, letting his brother's warmth seep into his aching shoulder, neck, and back.

"I've been thinkin' a lot about Alaska," he tells the angel.

And Castiel nods.

"What, you -- You saw?"

A faint smile, mostly in the eyes. "Dreamwalking is a fond habit of mine."

Sam and Dean speak at the same time.

"Were you really there?"

"Were you behind his nightmares, too?"

"Yes and no," he replies to Sam’s accusation. "He continued to dream of our conversation because it bothered him so much. Internal struggles will manifest during sleep in a myriad of ways. But I was there, observing. At times interjecting, when what he asked in the dream was something new."

"Hold up." Sam shoves Dean up so he can look him in the eye. "When the fuck were you in Alaska?"

\- - - - -

Sometime during the night, when the traffic sounds outside are next to nil, Dean wakes. He's warm. There's someone snuggled up behind him, and the faint hint of ozone and spice on the empty pillow in front of him.

He remembers talking until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, and he kind of remembers being positioned in the middle of the bed so Sam and Cas could pile around him and keep him warm.

With a deep, sleepy breath, he rolls over.

Sam's eyes glitter in the semi-darkness. "Hey," he murmurs.

"Hey," Dean says. His brother is like a furnace. Tucked in against his chest, legs tangling, Dean feels the loss of that heat at his back even as he's basking in it up front. His fingers curl against Sam's rumpled t-shirt.

"Y'know, he talked to me too."

Dean's immediate reaction is a very Cas-like head tilt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah... he said he trusted me to do the right thing." Sam snorts. "I thought he meant give you space, but I should have known the last thing you ever need is to be left alone in your own head."

"Ain't that the truth."

"It's like your own worst enemy."

"Isn't that a song?"

Sam laughs. "How the hell do you know that? I thought you didn't listen to anything recorded after '85."

"I'll have you know, I --" _Shit, he might be right._ "Shut up."

"Okay," Sam says fondly. He rests his forehead against Dean's, and Dean is too pleasantly shocked to make any kind of comeback. That's gotta be a first.

He licks his lips. There was another first, earlier. One he'd kinda like to repeat.

But once again, Sam is way ahead of him, warm lips finding his, strong arms wrapping around him. The scent of home rising to couch him and reassure him that yes, this is real, and he does deserve to feel good like this. With Sam.

When the kiss breaks, Dean gives in to an urge he would never admit to and nuzzles Sam's nose with his. The little giggle that escapes Sam says he knows, and he might consider not using it as blackmail material.

Then he sighs. "Guess I should apologize to Cas."

"I think he knows already," Dean says. "Dunno if he can see into you as well as he can me, but he's got us both figured out. Better than we do, anyhow."

"No kidding."

This time Dean finds Sam's lips, shifting closer, tilting his head and slotting them together as completely as he possibly can. He's waking up, body and mind. He tugs Sam's lower lip through his teeth to hear his brother whimper, and offers his thigh for Sam to grind up on.

Oh, shit -- That's right. Sammy's packing.

Dean rolls them over and Sam goes with it, lets Dean lay him flat and slide on top, legs spread, cocks aligning in delicious lines of friction and heat. Hips work on instinct. Sam writhes beneath him, a noise escaping that Dean licks from him and swallows. Mouths open willfully, tongues clashing, caressing. Dean finds Sam’s wrist, pinning it to the bed.

“Dean!” his brother gasps, the burr in his voice even more pronounced with arousal.

All Dean can do is growl and grind down harder.

Some part of him clamors he should be making this first time more special, but really, they’ve already shared so much that ‘first time’ is a mere formality. This is Dean giving and Sam taking, Sam letting him take. Sam’s cock swells enough to line up with Dean’s and behind, the base of him thick against Dean’s perineum, close to the nerves around his hole.

He never let Cas do that. Cas never asked.

Now one of Sam’s huge hands is finding his ass, rubbing, dipping a finger into his cleft and lower —

A noise escapes Dean, something between a virginal gasp and a needy groan.

Sam stops.

“Have you -- you guys ever --”

“Him,” Dean manages, “not me.”

The questing hand disappears like it got burned.

“Didn’t say you had to stop.”

“Yeah, but --” Sam shifts beneath him. “That wouldn’t be right. You guys, you’re --”

“I believe I made it clear we are all in this together.”

Castiel’s reappearance shocks a shout out of them both. Dean can’t see, but he feels Sam flush bright red.

“I won’t stay,” the angel says, “unless you wish me to. And I wasn’t eavesdropping -- You are both projecting loudly enough for all to hear.

“And no, that doesn’t mean stop.

“I just wanted to give you this, Dean.” Something small and muddy-colored in the low light gets placed on the pillow beside them. Dean squints.

It’s that goddamn rubber duck.

“Cas --” But the angel is gone. “Sneaky bastard.”

“What?” Sam says. He cranes his neck, and sees it. “Oh, my god.”

“You know what this is?” Dean sits up, legs cramping a little, but he’s not interested in _not_ spanning Sam’s lap while he inspects the duck. It looks the same as it did that day when Cas asked him what it was.

“Yeah, he, uh. Said it was how you got together.”

“Feels like a lifetime ago, now.”

Sam props himself up on his elbows. “A lot’s happened since then.”

“No kidding.” Dean looks down between them. “I’m sitting in your lap, dude.”

“I can see that.”

Sam’s cock twitches, and Dean’s reciprocates, a twin shudder running through them both.

Two nervous laughs.

A long moment of silence.

“Hey, uh, Cas?” Sam says to the room at large. “You should come back.”

_Whump-whuff._

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Finally, _finally_ tied up some loose ends. I hope this satisfies -- for now.
> 
> Trust me, it'll have as much smut as part five. I don't blame you if you feel shortchanged by this part. It ended itself, to be honest. For some reason the series itself decided this should be this, and the grand slam will come next. I'd appreciate kudos on this if you read it and these notes. If only so I know I'm still on the right track. 
> 
> If you haven't already subscribed to the series, and want to know the minute the next one appears, I'd suggest doing that and/or following me on tumblr: [my-wayward-karma](http://my-wayward-karma.tumblr.com).


End file.
